


VII

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [8]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was going to be simple -- Jane was going to come home and this would be simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	VII

Paul doesn’t sit down to write to Jane until Saturday -- two days after he and Foyle have their ‘regular’ dinner together. He doesn’t mail the letter until the next Tuesday. He doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about why he keeps delaying or the strong inner sense he has that it doesn’t matter. His letter, her reply -- they’re just formalities. 

But formalities are there for a reason and he drops the letter in the box on Tuesday morning on his way to the station. Her telegram arrives just before lunch time on Friday. The desk constable brings it in and hands it to Paul with a nod.

He tears it straight open and glances at the few lines inside -- and then looks at them again more slowly, flattening the telegram on his desk with his hand. He’s distantly aware of a sound in the office, but he’s still working on the words in front of him.

‘---Sergeant Milner?’

‘What?’ He blinks and looks up and Foyle is standing in front of his desk, hands in his trouser pockets.

‘I asked if it was good news but I don’t think I need the answer.’

‘No -- er -- sir -- just -- just a message from --’ He’s going to say _from my wife_ but the confirmation of the falsity of that is right in front of him and he’s never been very good at lying to someone’s face. He looks up at Foyle a little helplessly. ‘Just about some...some family matters. Sir.’

‘Family matters.’ Foyle nods, sucking on the corner of his lower lip. ‘Mm -- and that’s why you look as though you just dropped a brick on your foot.’

Paul tries to dredge up a smile but it feels stiff on his face. ‘That would only hurt on one side.’

Foyle’s eyebrows shoot up. He pauses and looks thoughtfully at Paul for a minute. ‘Time for an early lunch, I think.’ He pats the breast pocket of his jacket, checking for his wallet, and tips his head at the door. ‘Come on -- my treat.’

Paul stuffs the telegram in his pocket and follows.

* * *

The pub is quiet for noontime and they find a table out in the roped off garden at the back. It’s still warm enough to sit outside as long as the sun is out. 

Two ploughman’s and two pints are on the table between them and Foyle is making neat sandwiches out of his bread and cheese. Paul stares at his and takes a sip of beer -- the bitter is the first thing that’s felt real since he opened the telegram and he takes another, longer drink. 

Foyle isn’t watching him when he looks up from his glass but he can tell from the set of the older man’s shoulders that he’s waiting. If Paul chooses to go through the entire meal in silence, Foyle will still be waiting tomorrow morning and Paul blames the sips of bitter on an empty stomach for the rush of warmth that thought gives him. Foyle’s silences are usually comforting, quiet without being empty. Jane had been a past mistress of silences, but by contrast hers often had edges.

‘Jane is going to be staying with her family,’ he says abruptly, crumbling a bit of cheese between his fingers. 

‘Ah.’

Paul takes another long drink of beer and, in the rush of alcohol that follows, adds, ‘She’s asked me to send some things on to her.’

Foyle nods. ‘I think I have a spare suitcase in the attic.’

Paul swallows against bitterness that isn’t beer and that isn’t all bitter. He’s not sure if he feels more thrown because Jane isn’t coming back or because he was right and now he has to keep working at this problem that is him and Foyle. 

This was going to be simple -- Jane was going to come home and this would be simple. 

And now -- and now he is left with a man who holds silence for him and saves home-made bread for him and remembers he likes bitter and-- ‘I don’t think you quite understand, sir.’

‘No?’ Foyle glances up, quirks an eyebrow.

‘She -- she isn’t going to be coming home.’ He pulls the crumpled telegram out of his pocket and smooths it on the rough table between them. ‘She sent this.’ Foyle’s fingers hover over the telegram for a minute until Paul nods and pushes it towards him, then he scans over it quickly and pushes it back. ‘Hm.’

Paul swallows bitterness again -- with a mouthful of beer this time.

‘I have some cartons in the attic as well,’ Foyle offers, dusting his fingers over his plate and looking up at him. ‘If they’re needed.’

Paul tries to put on a smile but it feels almost painful and he lets it drop immediately. ‘Thank you, sir.’


End file.
